


The End Depends Upon the Beginning

by lazarus_girl



Series: GGSM Prompts [3]
Category: Glee
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 18:16:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazarus_girl/pseuds/lazarus_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rachel Berry, newly arrived in New York from Massachusetts, has a neat, fixed idea of what her college experience will be. That idea, and her world, is turned on its head when she crosses paths with her new roommate, Santana Lopez.</p><p>
  <i>"It wasn't that she didn't have friends in high school, but those friends were nothing like Santana Lopez."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The End Depends Upon the Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt fill for the [GGSM](http://trainwrecky.livejournal.com/1320.html?thread=28456#t28456). AU. This was a lot of fun to write, not least because I got to write new backstory for Santana and Rachel both, and incorporate other characters in different ways than we ordinarily see in canon. The title of the story is a translation of Phillips Academy’s motto: ‘Finis Origine Pendet.’ Phillips is also referenced throughout. Thank you, as ever, to [cargoes](http://cargoes.tumblr.com) for her beta skills and cheerleading.

***

 _“Don't ever think I fell for you, or fell over you._  
 _I didn't fall in love, I rose in it.”_  
― Toni Morrison, _Jazz_.

***

Right now, Rachel should be thinking about Bertolt Brecht. More precisely, she should be concerned with how much of this semester’s grade rests on the essay about him and the deconstruction of Brechtian technique. She’s a theatre major; this is basic stuff, the building blocks upon which her growth as an actress is founded, and she has less than a day to get something written. It’s due on Monday, her last paper before they go on Christmas break, but she just can’t focus. She’s in the library, sitting on the floor surrounded by textbooks and half-scrawled notes that make little to no sense. It’s late, too late to be here really. The strip light above her head keeps flickering and buzzing, and she can feel a headache coming on. The whole atmosphere is oppressive. She can feel the tension and the collective panic, rising up from everyone around her like fumes. Most of that panic is her own, reflected back at her.

College is a lot different to what she expected, and a lot of what’s different isn’t in the glossy brochures. Culture shock doesn’t really cover it. For her entire high school career at Phillips Academy she had focus. Everything was built around being successful and making a success of herself. She kept a solid, respectable GPA; she did a bunch of extra curriculars that look great on paper _and_ were fun to do; she was well-liked as well as being popular. She was _that_ girl. The girl with everything. The model example. The girl most likely to succeed, yes, but the girl most likely to be hopelessly in love with her roommate? That little life goal wasn’t something collaged on the vision board pinned up in her room full of cuttings and motivational quotes.

She’s well and truly out of her comfort zone. She doesn’t have the GSA, Drama Lab, writing for The Phillipian, working on the yearbook or any of the other things she used to take for granted. Her (ex) boyfriend Noah – her first love, the very definition of a high school sweetheart – was the captain of the rowing crew, and now he’s on a scholarship doing economics at Stanford. She never thought she’d miss watching him train and cheering the boats along the Merrimack, but she does. Her best and oldest friend, Tina, is at Berkeley now, majoring in political science. She misses Mock Trial and Model UN, watching her putting Blaine Anderson in his place. Most of all, she misses when they’d sing with the other girls in Azure – the girls they have coming up are good, but their year just had better chemistry and an even better sound.

Even though she misses Tina and Noah, Rachel couldn’t be happier for both of them, because they’re still sort of the centre of her world. She and Tina Skype almost every day, and she still has pictures of Noah on her cell phone. Right now, it feels like the axis of that world has shifted a little – a lot – and that’s equal parts terrifying and exciting. Terrifying, because she doesn’t know what she’s doing and she _hates_ not knowing. She doesn’t know if Barnard was the right choice, even if New York is the right city, and New York has been the right city for her ever since she watched _Breakfast at Tiffany’s_ with her dads in their home cinema when she was eight. Exciting, because she doesn’t know if what she’s feeling is just because of college and New York or whether it’s just because of one person in it.

Santana Lopez.

Santana’s a history major, from Chicago, smokes cigarettes, listens to Tamla Motown and Northern Soul (and thinks nothing of dancing around in her underwear to it and singing along), has the filthiest potty mouth Rachel’s ever heard, and is so much wiser than her eighteen years. Santana’s cool – and Rachel hates that word, it’s a word parents use or newspapers or greetings card companies, but she is. She used to be the lead singer in a garage band, but she doesn’t really sing anymore (which Rachel thinks is a travesty because she has a beautiful voice). Santana’s flirtatious and _sexy_ and Rachel’s never really thought of anyone that way before – she just oozes sex, there’s no better way to put it – and probably the most beautiful girl Rachel’s ever seen in real-life close-up. Not the plastic, photoshopped magazine kind of beautiful; the kind of beautiful that can stop your heart, re-start it, and break it in a single glance. Dangerous and intoxicating. She’s never seen anyone like her before. It wasn't that she didn't have friends in high school, but those friends were nothing like Santana Lopez.

The second they met; from the very moment they shook hands when Santana was barely over the threshold of their dorm, carrying a huge stack of boxes, Rachel just knew that her life was going to be different. Changed. Flipped. Altered irrevocably. Everything’s gone at warp speed; beginning with polite conversation and getting used to sharing space with someone new; then pizza, movie marathons and pulling each other through all-nighters; and now, they’re waiting for each other after class to walk across campus together and being utterly inseparable to the point she hasn’t had time to think of making other friends and she doesn’t much care either. It doesn’t bother her that people are talking about them because Santana’s gay and she’s … figuring it out. From the start, Santana was open and honest with her, never hiding her sexuality – and nor should she – practically giving her a get out of jail card if she was freaked out by sharing a room with her. When she reeled off that she had two dads, that most of her friends at school were gay and she practically chaired the GSA, Santana’s relief was palpable. Not all high school experiences were as rosy as hers.

Until Barnard, and Santana, her life has been completely and utterly ordinary; narrow in focus and she didn’t even question it. Except, now she knows there is more; that she’s Alice and New York is Wonderland, she can’t do anything _but_ question it. Compared to her, Santana seems so settled in her skin and confident, and sometimes Rachel wonders if Santana got some manual to life she didn’t.

Even her friends seem older, even though they’re not. Her best friend Mike goes to Juilliard, and for a while, Rachel thought that he and Santana were dating, because they seemed so close and comfortable around each other in away that she and Noah never really were, no matter how much she still loves him. It turned out that Mike was “just a friend who’s a boy, not a boyfriend.” Santana thought it was cute, and she still teases her about it when Mike comes to visit. Some of the best nights she’s ever had are with Santana and Mike, going on these crazy little adventures – that usually end up on Santana’s YouTube channel with commentary – like warehouse parties in Bushwick or picking a random subway stop just to see what’s there. They make her feel a little reckless. She feeds off their energy and it makes her braver than she’d normally be, so she says yes instead of no; doesn’t pull away when Santana takes her hand sometimes, leading her though dark clubs and darker streets, and she doesn’t tell Santana to stop when they collapse in a fit of giggles on the bed when they find their way home and end up kissing.

That energy doesn’t seem such a good thing when Santana’s girlfriend Quinn visits, or, used to visit, because that doesn’t happen so much anymore. There’s been no mention of her since they came back from Thanksgiving break. Rachel’s never talked to her about it, because Santana’s actually a pretty private person. There are some parts of herself that are closed off, and equally, some topics that just aren’t open to discussion. Quinn, and what happened there is one of them. Quinn’s an English major at Yale, who writes plays; pretty in a devastating Grace Kelly old Hollywood kind of way, and in theory, Rachel thought they’d get along, just as she does with Mike, but it wasn’t to be. There’s something cold and aloof about her that made Rachel uneasy, and not just because of their shared history and obvious attraction. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other, and it’d leave her feeling used and more than a little envious, making her kiss harder and be rougher with Santana once Quinn was gone than she’d usually be, as if they were in some weird competition, the rules of which remain unwritten.

Quite simply, Quinn’s everything she’s not, and compared to her, Rachel feels like a child; completely naïve, even if Santana is broadening her horizons in ways she never thought possible.

Whenever Quinn would talk to her, there would be these thinly-veiled comments about her closeness to Santana, and how nice it was they were friends. Rachel was certain she knew just how far things between her and Santana had progressed, that they didn’t just kiss anymore, and she’s spent more time in Santana’s bed than in her own lately. Quinn seemed to make Santana that little bit colder too. The girl who was her bodyguard-turned-protector at clubs and parties seemed to disappear. The girl who kissed her softly and touched her with such tenderness left too. The girl who made her over and let her borrow her clothes, made her feel beautiful and sexy for the first time in her life was gone, replaced by someone who made her feel like she was just an experiment, another notch on her bedpost. That she was just another girl Santana was ‘in like’ with, like Elaine Douglas, the pretty Psychology student who lives on their floor who has her phone number; or that blonde library assistant she flirts with every time they’re in here to get out of late fines when they don’t return their textbooks on time.

Everyone’s a little in love with Santana Lopez, and she knows it.

Rachel would make herself scarce at night to give Santana and Quinn space, but she’d still catch glimpses of what went on when she wasn’t around: scratches down Santana’s back when she’d get changed in front of her; hickeys on her neck that she’d cover with scarves. Rachel’s never dared to bring up what’s been happening with Quinn or Santana or how that makes her feel, and it’s getting difficult to deal with. Bringing it up would mean admitting things. That would be an admission of guilt. On some level, she _does_ feel guilt, because Santana wasn’t free agent, but it takes two, and Santana didn’t fight it. Whatever ‘it’ is, she’s not entirely sure. They haven’t given it a label. All she knows is that she really likes being around Santana, and hates it when she’s not; and she’s terrified of jeopardising it.

Something is better than nothing.

Things with Santana are complicated, more complicated than she’d like to admit, but that’s nothing to do with the fact Santana’s a girl. There was no great revelation, no panic over the fact that it was a girl rather than a boy, she hasn’t really had time to stop and process it all. Until now. It just sort of happened. Love happened to her when she wasn’t looking. One night, Santana just carried on kissing her, not stopping when she usually would and before Rachel knew it, she was naked, and Santana’s head was between her legs, tongue lapping and mouth teasing until she came faster and harder than she ever had before, moaning Santana’s name.

There’s usually a turning point for these things, she knows all too well from watching too many movies, reading too many novels and plays, but try as she might, she can’t find it. She can’t find that spot, when she Rachel Barbra Berry, stepped over the line, and made the conscious choice to be more than Santana’s friend.

“And here she is, ladies and gentlemen, Rachel Berry in her natural habitat!”

Rachel jumps, relieved when she sees Santana standing over her wearing a ridiculous – but beautiful – cheesy smile, filming everything on her phone for posterity, and YouTube.

“I’ve come to liberate you, Berry. It’s not healthy to spend this much time in a library.”

She straightens, knowing she probably looks terrible; hair in a messy bun, wearing the first thing she laid her hands on this morning because she was running late for class (Santana’s fault entirely, because the second she tried to move from the bed, she was kissed into submission): one of Santana’s band shirt’s and a denim mini-skirt, with a cardigan thrown over the top. She’s pretty sure one of her classmates was wearing his pyjamas today, but still, she has standards. She’s still getting used to the freedom of wearing her own clothes instead of her school uniform on a daily basis, so she has a whole new wardrobe at her disposal. The fact Santana’s just inches from her all warm and immaculate like something straight out of a Gap ad – perfect hair and even more perfect low-rise jeans – is kind of infuriating and mesmerising at the same time. Santana won’t care, because her whole thing is more about the expressiveness of fashion than vanity, but even so, Rachel’s kind of embarrassed.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Rachel hisses, swatting at Santana with her notebook and missing entirely, notebook sailing from her hand when Santana steps out of her reach, chuckling. “I hate you!”

“Oh, well, maybe you don’t want this caramel latte with an extra shot I got you then?” Santana tilts her head, mocking, and pouts, holding up a takeaway coffee cup.

“No, no, I want it!” Rachel lurches forward, reaching a little too eagerly for it when Santana offers it to her.

She’s stressed, tired, and needs a caffeine hit. It has nothing to do with the fact Santana walked all the way across campus in the cold from their dorm to get it _and_ remembered her favourite order just to give her a boost. Not at all. See, it’s these little moments, when she sees Santana do sweet things like this, that make her wonder. They make her wonder if maybe Santana feels something too, and it’s not just about fooling around.

“Uh huh, that’s what they all say,” Santana smirks, playful.

Rachel makes a face, sipping on her coffee and not rising to her bait. She’s not about to inflate Santana’s ego any further. “Shut up, you know what I mean, “ she replies, all too loud.

“Don’t say I never give you anything, sweet cheeks!” Santana declares, louder still. “I thought I could lure you to the outside with it, like Hansel and Gretel.”

The girl at the table opposite glares, telling them to “shhh” though gritted teeth.

“It’s a library, not a morgue, get over yourself!” Santana snaps.

Rachel almost chokes on her drink. “You’ll get us thrown out!”

“I don’t care,” Santana shrugs. “I’m sure we can find something way more entertaining to do tonight.”

Rachel’s certain she blushes when Santana winks at her, and all she can think of is her bed – their bed – back at the dorm and what a good stress reliever sex is. Elaine’s read all kinds of studies, and she tells them stuff like that all the time. It’s scientifically proven. If she wasn’t turned on at the sight of Santana before, she certainly is now. She still has the weekend to do this essay, that’s lot of time, and she’s a fast typist. Rachel watches, eyes fixed on Santana’s ass she bends to retrieve the notebook. The coffee that’s been raised to her lips doesn’t get sipped for an unhealthy amount of time. She’d be ashamed, were it not for the mischievous knowing look in Santana’s eyes when she turns back toward her – OK, she’s still kind of ashamed, because staring isn’t polite and she’s getting far too careless when it comes to Santana.

She gets caught, so ends up guzzling most of her drink down just try and cover her embarrassment. It doesn’t work.

“Perv,” Santana whispers, amused, dropping Rachel’s notebook into her lap before she shrugs out of her jacket. Her bag drops to the floor with a heavy thud.

Santana has work to do too. They’ve been slacking when it comes to academics lately and Rachel knows it’s not a good path to be going down, because Santana’s a scholarship student, and she has to keep up good grades.

“I was just gonna ask you how things with old Bert were going, but _shit_ ,” Santana says, sympathetic, gesturing toward her mess of notes. “If you were writing about the Renaissance, we’d be golden.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, resting her head back against the shelves, setting the almost empty cup next to her.

“Hey, you have all weekend,” Santana nudges her elbow. “You’ll get it. Think calm thoughts.”

Rachel turns to look at her. “I don’t think you can do that fuelled by double-shot latte.”

“Good point.” Santana nods. “You’re clearly the brains of this outfit, babe.”

Santana definitely saw her blush that time. She couldn’t not. Rachel glances away, looking down at the textbook next to her on the floor.

Suddenly, Santana’s closer, breath hot on Rachel’s neck, pushing a curled lock of hair around Rachel’s ear. “You’re cute when you get embarrassed.”

Rachel swallows hard. Eyes darting around to see if they’re being watched. That’s Santana’s ‘I’m horny and I want you’ voice; low, husky and tempting. Everyone else is far too busy to care. It’s what Santana’s counting on.

“Santana,” she whines, casting her eyes to the ceiling, counting the dots on the tile.

She’s looking anywhere but Santana, because once she does, it’s all over. Her studious ideals will be in tatters. She left the dorm because she couldn’t concentrate with Santana in their room, and now she can’t concentrate because Santana’s here instead. Rachel never knew her willpower was so appallingly feeble, but there’s been little to test it before now.

“What?” Santana plays coy, walking her fingertips over Rachel’s right thigh.

“Stop it,” Rachel warns. “I have to finish this,” she continues, fighting against smiling, because it means Santana will have won.

“Stop what?”

“ _That_ ,” Rachel glares pointedly.

“Look how wound up you are,” Santana drawls, hand drifting under Rachel’s skirt, just enough to make Rachel let out shuddering breath. “You obviously need to de-stress.”

Rachel swallows, trying her best to keep still. She’s really not an exhibitionist, not when it comes to sex, but she’s been thinking about Santana all day. It sounds pathetic, but Santana’s been her awakening. Santana’s _the_ girl, the one she’s always read about in novels, who turn people’s world’s upside down and show them other things exist. She’s no prude; she and Noah snuck around rules and curfews to be together, and she’s still hung up on him more than she’d like to admit – he was the boy that every girl in their school wanted; Guess in a sea of Ralph Lauren clones – but she’s never felt this for anyone before. She can’t get enough. Now she understands why Tina used to get so crazy over Jesse St. James and every other cute boy at Phillips. It’s because she felt like Rachel does, right now. She just wants Santana. All of her. All of the time. Santana doesn’t know, but and she’s had dreams about this kind of thing happening. Really lurid dreams that leave her needing a cold shower when Santana’s left early for class, and make Rachel incredibly late when she hasn’t, because they just can’t or won’t stop.

“I think I can help with that.”

Rachel’s not looking at Santana now, her eyes are closed, but she can hear the smirk she knows is all over Santana’s face. Rachel’s breath hitches, because Santana’s voice has already hit that sultry pitch that makes her go a little crazy. It’s the one she uses when they’re in bed together, and Santana’s guiding her a little, saying what feels good to her, and why – Santana never pushes her, she’s always kind, infinitely patient and considerate, which is what’s making this whole _thing_ even more confusing. If Santana was mean to her like she is to other people – bitchy, arrogant and aloof – maybe this would be easier. She’d feel used instead of feeling desired and wanted like she never has before now.

“If you like?” Santana breathes; fingertips skating up the inside of Rachel’s thigh, inching closer.

Rachel bites back a moan and Santana chuckles.

“I have work to do,” she protests, weakly. “You have work to do.”

They can’t do that here, in full view. They just can’t.

“I prefer practical research methods,” Santana moves her hand away, and Rachel thinks she’s done for now; that they’ll settle down and get on with what they’re supposed to be doing. Then, she leans over, taking her book and tossing it to the side. “It has much better results,” she continues, her mouth suddenly on Rachel’s neck, pressing a quick kiss there.

“Everyone can see!” Rachel says, warily.

“Correction,” Santana begins, settling her hand back underneath Rachel’s skirt, “ _Everyone_ is busy …”

“Santana,” she can hear the strain in her voice, betraying her.

She wants to be good and resist, to get up and walk away so Santana gets the message because she doesn’t want to look too easy, but she can’t make herself move. She just can’t, not with the way Santana’s looking at her. Those deep, dark eyes just pull her in and that mouth – dear God, what she can do with it – perilously close to hers and just begging to be kissed. She’s praying that Santana won’t listen and that hand will inch that last little bit higher. Embarrassingly, she wouldn’t need much from her right now. Just the thought of Santana touching her like that, in this library full of people, is making her wet, and it’s almost enough. Almost.

“Open your legs,” Santana says, in that same husky tone.

Rachel’s mouth goes dry, and she darts out her tongue to wet her lips. She tries to speak, tries to muster that one last little bit of resistance, but there’s nothing left, her resolve slips away. Before she realises, she shifts closer to Santana, uncrossing her legs and Santana’s nudging them gently, fractionally apart, and Rachel finds herself grasping at the bottom of the bookshelf for purchase, hoping to find something, anything to steady herself.

“Let’s see how quiet you can be.”

She doesn’t have a hope in hell, and Santana knows it. Rachel’s pretty sure this isn’t the kind of education her dads were talking about when they extolled the virtues of college to her, but she’s never been more thankful that she passed on going to Harvard as she is right now. Rachel breathes out, one concentrated breath, readying herself, her whole body tense with anticipation. Santana must sense it, because she’s stalling on purpose – she has to be – she has a devilish streak. She loves to tease and make her wait, smoothing along her thigh with maddening slowness. Then, all at once, Santana’s fingers are right there, pushing her panties to the side and stroking, long, deliberate and careful. Even so, Rachel’s breath hitches at the contact and her eyes flutter closed.

“ _Fuck_ ," Santana practically growls in her ear. “You’re so wet. You wanted me to touch you so bad, didn’t you?”

All Rachel can do is nod; her back pressing into the bookshelf to the point that it’s uncomfortable. She bites down on her lip, pushing her hips down, desperate not to move toward Santana’s fingers, but desperate to move toward them all the same. She’s aching for her – and it’s a real ache, building in her belly – and only Santana can soothe it.

“You’ve been thinking about me all day, right? You wanted to skip class and stay in bed with me,” Santana’s voice is playful, but it’s edged with want. This is clearly working for her on some level. “You wish we were there right now, don’t you?”

To Rachel’s surprise, laughter bubbles up, because _God_ does she.

“Uh-huh,” Rachel admits, blushing furiously.

“That’s so hot,” Santana sighs, fingers stroking the length of her, pressing harder than before, thumb swiping across her clit. “So hot.”

Rachel’s never heard her talk like that before. They need to get out of here, right now.

She forces herself to keep her head up and not hit it off the shelves when Santana’s fingers slip inside of her, barely, just teasing, but it’s exactly what she needed, and her hips lift, craving that little bit more. Rachel’s mouth opens; the groan that wants to escape can’t quite, because she doesn’t have enough air to give it sound, so it comes out as a hushed little whimper instead.

“Mmm, you feel good,” Santana purrs. Rachel floods, clenching at the prospect of more when Santana presses deeper. She gasps, a genuine far-too-loud-for-a-library gasp. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Santana smile, seeming to relish it all. “But, you taste better,” Santana adds, easing slowly out of her.

Rachel turns her head so fast she could probably get whiplash, because that’s not what she wanted at all and she doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream or slap Santana across the face (or do all three) so she’s just left looking at her mutely, worked up beyond reason, hornier than she’s ever been in her whole eighteen years of life, and it’s all been whipped away from her. But, that doesn’t really matter, not when she finally registers what Santana’s doing. She’s wearing the same satisfied little smile she does after she’s just gone down on her, and makes a display out of wiping her mouth clean of Rachel’s juices, somehow smug and demure at once. Only this time, there’s nothing like that; it’s not demure, it’s brazen and unashamed. Santana’s sitting there, unhurriedly licking her fingers clean as if she’s getting her last taste of her favourite Ben and Jerry’s flavour, not caring who sees or what they think.

She should be freaked out, and guilty enough to disown her, but Rachel’s not, not one bit. It’s hot. It’s really hot, and now she’s curious about what it would be like to go down on Santana and what she might taste like, because they’ve never done that, and she’s not entirely sure why. It’s the one line they’ve chosen to keep intact, even if it’s a thin one.

“How’s that stress level now?” Santana asks, casually, as if she just enquired about the time.

Rachel clears her throat. “High.”

“Oh, well, maybe we get some fresh air. Clear your head, hmm?” Santana suggests, helpful, beaming at her. “Get a bite to eat, perhaps?”

It takes a few seconds for what Santana’s just said to sink in. When it does, Rachel’s scrambling; shoving her notes and her textbooks without care into her bag. Then, she grabs a smiling Santana and pulls her up to standing before she can say anything else. It’s too fast, too telling, and it means she’s lost some ground with her, but she doesn’t care. She can’t focus on anything but what’s going to happen once they leave here, and how much she wants, no, needs it to happen.

“That’s, umm, a good idea,” she nods, trying to keep up the pretence. “I’d like that.”

She ignores Santana’s quizzical arched eyebrow, and the sly comment about how “hungry” she must be, because she’ll get her revenge the next time Santana’s wanting and frustrated like this. She can be strong and say no, she can push her right to the very edge and then back away and leave her dangling too, but she just doesn’t have it in her to do it right now.

The look on Santana’s face says that she’ll definitely make up for all her teasing, and if that involves being naked, Rachel’s even happier. She’s even looking forward to their customary post-coital cigarette, even though they shouldn’t be on campus. It’s a filthy habit and it’s even worse for her voice, but there’s something so sexy about watching Santana light it; how it rests between her lips and how smoke curls up to the ceiling. It feels decadent and adult, and makes this crazy mess seem like something grand. In moments like this, it’s not just an experiment or a college fling, it’s an affair. They’re lovers. Santana is her lover.

She might not fully understand this yet or have the slightest idea where it’s all going, but she doesn’t want to change it either.

They practically run out of there, tripping over themselves as they try to carry everything, pulling on jackets and throwing bags over their shoulders while trying and keep hold of each other. Hand-in-hand, Santana leading the way, she leans on the exit barrier to keep it open, so Rachel doesn’t have to swipe her ID card. They take the stairs two at a time. When they round the vending machine, giddy and breathless, Rachel pulls Santana in for a kiss; hands in her hair, heated, heavy and passionate. The slam of Santana’s body against the machine echoes around them as Santana’s arm winds around her waist. She swallows down Santana’s surprised moan, tasting herself on Santana’s tongue when it curls into her mouth. There is love between them, Rachel knows, she’s not deluded, no matter how naïve she might be compared to her. She daren’t say it, not yet – maybe not ever – so she shows it instead.

“Told you I’d get you out of that library,” Santana says, smiling triumphantly when she breaks the kiss.

Before Rachel can even think of arguing, Santana’s off and running, and Rachel’s hit by a blast of cold air from the automatic doors when they whoosh open.

“Time’s a-wasting doll face. Takeout isn’t open all night,” Santana calls, beckoning her with a wag of her finger.

Brecht can wait, Rachel reasons, as she gives chase, following Santana into the night. She has other, more important techniques to master right now.


End file.
